


The Color of Pain

by bideru



Series: Stormwind Secret Archives [9]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, F/M, Family Relationships - Freeform, Grief/Mourning, M/M, anduin is oblivious and trusting and that is valid okay, attempted offscreen murder, cupcake boi anduin, this author remembers anduin is canonically disabled, valeera is historically bad at relationships and feelings, wranduin means jihui, wrathion cockblocks himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29145006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bideru/pseuds/bideru
Summary: An old secret of Shaw's manifests and its implications rock Valeera to her core and threaten to splinter her relationship with Anduin. Meanwhile, Wrathion divulges a secret of his own and Anduin finally accepts that he has been, perhaps, a little blind about the nature of the relationship between his father and Valeera.
Relationships: Valeera Sanguinar & Anduin Wrynn, Valeera Sanguinar/Varian Wrynn, Wrathion/Anduin Wrynn, implied background fairshaw, past vanshaw
Series: Stormwind Secret Archives [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1984304
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	The Color of Pain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LiquidLobotomy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiquidLobotomy/gifts).



> LiquidLobotomy's works and mine exist in an alternate universe with few differences (the biggest and most obvious being that her Anduin is bisexual while mine is gay). When she wrote [Beautiful Ghosts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28565775) she mentioned to me that she wasn't going to tackle the fallout between Anduin and Valeera and graciously allowed me to do so. Please read Beautiful Ghosts, as it's an amazing fic in its own right and will give you a lot more clarity for this one, but I do believe I've summarized it well enough in-story here. The only major change between our two universes is that Anduin in hers is seeing Taelia, who in this universe has taken Anduin up on his invitation to visit Stormwind. 
> 
> In addition this fic references [Eat Pray Stab](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184129/chapters/66397048) (particularly the Shaw chapter) and is a direct continuation of both Beautiful Ghosts and [Begin Again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28975110).

It had been a rough couple of days. Or had it already been a week? Anduin didn’t know anymore. Between the hunt for Sylvanas and the insanity unfolding in his own city, the young king had quite lost track of time. 

It started simply enough, looking back. Some time ago, Anduin wasn’t sure exactly when, he had been informed that SI:7’s recruiter had passed away. Waltion Freemore ﹣ Anduin couldn’t remember if he’d met the man before, but the reports stated that Freemore was elderly and his death unsuspicious. The king knew how losing operatives pained his spymaster, no matter how well Shaw thought he hid it. Mathias Shaw cared about his agents, and they cared for him in return. Anduin understood that intimately, and he’d offered his condolences in person. 

And then it had all gone to shit.

Walton Freemore, apparently, wasn’t _just_ some longstanding intelligencer. He was Mathias’s grandfather ﹣ something Shaw hadn't even known ﹣ and with his death unleashed a wicked melody of unholy secrets. This in itself wasn’t unusual ﹣ a man of his age and status was bound to have kept more confidences than there were bricks in Stormwind Keep, and it wasn’t until Taelia Fordragon and Captain Fairshaw, in a shocked moment of casual familiarity, explained it to him that Anduin thought he understood at least some of it. Freemore had held information that rocked the spymaster to his very core, and for the first time in living memory, Shaw had requested time off to deal with it. 

Even the horrors of Felsoul Hold hadn't warranted a leave of absence, and the king worried for him.

To make matters worse, Valeera had chosen that moment to saunter in ﹣ ostensibly to dissuade Anduin, again, from pursuing any sort of relationship with the Black Prince Wrathion ﹣ and had overheard a very crucial piece of information from an upset Fairwind: During the Defias rebellion, and for who knew how long beforehand, Mathias Shaw had been lovers with Edwin VanCleef, leader of the Defias himself. 

It was a name that had haunted the little king’s childhood. Edwin VanCleef was the reason for his father’s detachment and his mother’s death. Anduin had far too many memories of the glee that would streak his father’s face at the mention of captured Defias agents, and the thunderous fury it would become when he found that none of them were the leader. The way his father’s whole face would screw up, blooming red with rage, spittle flying from his mouth as he screamed loud enough to be heard halfway across the keep.

_“I WANT HIM KILLED ON SIGHT! I WANT HIS HEAD TORN FROM HIS FUCKING BODY AND BOILED IN OIL! I WILL RIP HIM APART WITH MY BARE HANDS!”_

His father could get quite graphic with what he’d like to do to VanCleef, and had whooped so loudly when the man’s severed head arrived in a box that he’d actually rendered himself temporarily deaf. 

Anduin knew all of this. And he knew, now that he was older, that Valeera had been one of the driving forces behind the eradication of the organization and its supporters. Possessing no authority of her own in those early days, Valeera had made good use of the skills she’d acquired as a gladiator in the Crimson Ring, and upon returning to the castle would seek out the king, no matter what he was in the middle of, and whisper a single word in his ear. Anduin had heard her once ﹣ _“Twelve.”_ ﹣ and it wasn’t until much later that it dawned on him: Twelve was the number of Defias corpses she had left in the king's name. 

He’d felt he was watching the events unfold in slow motion, as Fairwind mumbled to Taelia, _He told you about Edwin, yeah? His old lover, died several years back,_ without a thought to the implications of those words. Without knowing the history he’d dredged up. Watched as Valeera’s ears stiffened, and the steely gleam Anduin remembered so well from his childhood returned to her eyes. 

_Are you alright, Val?_ he’d heard himself ask, and without looking at him she’d bit out, _Of course_ and _I have some assignments to attend. I won’t be back for a few days._

Even Taelia and Fairwind had caught on by now, had felt the shift in the air, the icy chill like diamond dust emanating from the assassin. They fell silent, and in that moment faded away. 

_Val,_ Anduin had tried. _Don’t. It’s not worth it._

He didn’t know why he’d bothered. With the tone he knew so well, she replied, _I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now if you’ll excuse me…_

 _I won’t!_ Perhaps he’d said it with more force than intended, but Anduin knew if he didn’t say something, if he allowed Val to walk through that door, he’d be reading the report of Shaw’s death come morning. With his father gone, it fell upon Valeera’s shoulders to carry out what he’d started. _As your king, I am commanding you to leave Mathias Shaw be. Turn the other way. That is a direct order, Val. Do you understand?_

Anduin had never given Valeera an order in his life, and even as the words burst forth he didn’t feel good about them. Something churned in his gut, some unease and discomfort and fear. For just a moment, he didn’t see Valeera standing before him but his father ﹣ and he could only imagine how the Great Wolf would react. 

But for all her mothering over the years, Valeera was not his parent, and despite her closeness to his father she wasn’t Varian either. She stared at Anduin as though not really seeing him, and when she spoke it was to a spot just above his head. _As you wish, Your Majesty._

She’d bowed to him before he left, which only made him feel worse. Val had never bowed to him before. 

Taelia had spoken to him the next day. He was supposed to be showing her around the city ﹣ it was the reason for her visit after all, despite Genn’s attempts to shoehorn them together romantically ﹣ but neither of them had felt much like sightseeing, and Taelia hadn’t wanted to be in the castle at all, her mind elsewhere, returning unprompted to Mathias Shaw in his flat in Old Town. _Valeera showed up,_ she’d said quietly. And after Anduin had ascertained that Shaw still lived, the girl had asked, _What… happened, yesterday? Who is she?_ And when Anduin had told her, she’d asked another question. _Were she and your father…?_

 _No,_ Anduin had said immediately, because that was what he’d always been told. 

_Val and I are not an item,_ his father had answered, one cozy fall afternoon. Anduin, nine years old and enamored with his father’s gladiator friends, had been eavesdropping in the courtyard, trying to catch a glimpse of the tallest night elf he’d ever seen. A towering oak of a man, with a bushy beard the color of moss and actual _antlers_ growing from his temples. The night elf had laughed.

 _Don’t be silly,_ Val had told him when he’d asked later, as she sat with him while he was supposed to be studying his Dwarvish. He’d thought perhaps it was a secret, that his father had not wanted his night elf friend ﹣ and, to be honest, the entire courtyard ﹣ to know about it. Anduin was nine years old and good at keeping secrets, and Val had always been honest with him before. _Finish your translation, Anduin._

Anduin knew the antagonistic history between Val and Shaw hadn’t been completely buried with his father’s death and his own ascension to the throne. Something had changed between them, certainly, but they were not friends, and though Anduin had been sheltered from a great deal of it, he knew that for most of his life they had been at each other’s throats. Taking the throne had been but a bandage over the old wound of their relationship, and the mention of Edwin VanCleef had ripped it right off and allowed it to fester once more. 

Shaw was still on leave, and while Val was presumably still in the castle, Anduin hadn’t seen her since. And _Taelia,_ who was here as Anduin’s guest, was due to return home soon to Boralus, and he’d hardly done a thing for her visit.

“You’re doing it again.” 

Anduin jolted out of his reverie, finding himself sitting across from the Black Prince, the jihui board between them once more. Wrathion’s chin rested in his palm, the large onyx ring adorning his middle finger warring with the dragon’s glowing crimson eyes for attention. Anduin thought he’d been smiling ﹣ he’d _sounded_ like he’d been smiling ﹣ but he wasn’t now, his face a carefully blank mask. 

“Doing what?” Frowning, the king bent over the board. Wrathion was not always patient, and had probably been waiting some time for Anduin to take his turn. In his worry, Anduin forgot exactly where he’d planned to move next.

The mask cracked as a kind smile grew, and Wrathion’s voice was gentle as he replied, “Fretting about things over which you have no control, my dear.”

His insides turned to ice, and it was several moments before Anduin was able to reply. He was the High King ﹣ he _controlled_ all of the Alliance. But Val… Val was different, no matter the circumstances, and it made Anduin sick to remember how he’d tried to control her too. 

He’d confided in the dragon the events of that night, in one long, shaky, breathless rush of air. For that moment Anduin didn’t want to remember how awkward their relationship had become, how slowly they’d proceeded in the wake of N’Zoth’s demise and Wrathion’s pardon. He didn’t want to have to _think._ He wanted someone to talk to and Wrathion had heroically come through for him. Had held his tongue in a massive show of self restraint and allowed Anduin to talk himself hoarse. 

_I think,_ the dragon had mused, smoothing a lock of hair away from the king’s face, _that you are upset because Valeera Sanguinar has long filled the role of your parent. Because for all intents and purposes, she is your mother. And while you certainly have the authority to order her around as you please, filial piety demands that you let her do as she likes. You feel badly for assuming a position of power over her._

He was right, of course, and it wasn’t anything Anduin didn’t already know, but it helped, a little, to have the roiling turmoil inside him put into something so elegant and concise. It didn’t seem so terrifying this way, was more easily examined. 

“Hey.” Anduin startled as a warm heat enveloped his outstretched hand, jihui stone and all, and squeezed. “What are you thinking now?” Wrathion was holding his hand in both of his, staring at him so attentively that Anduin blushed.

“Just.” The king sighed. “Val,” he admitted. It bothered him to have asserted power over her, and hurt that she’d lied to him and was now ignoring him. When she was in Stormwind, Val normally spent a lot of time with him, and meals were quite a lonely affair when one wasn’t used to eating alone. 

He’d thought, when first broaching the subject, that Wrathion would be unsympathetic. The blood elf had made no secret of her dislike and distrust of him, nor was Wrathion overly fond of her either, in the way he’d never been fond of authority figures and those who questioned him. Though he had no proof, Anduin was quite sure that at some point, Valeera and Wrathion had had words after his return, and they had not been kind. But the dragon surprised him as he’d been doing as of late. Put aside his own distaste, and kept his snark to a minimum. 

There came a rustling of fabric ﹣ the glimmery silks of Wrathion’s fashionably long tunic ﹣ as the dragon shifted, coming to sit beside him now. With one hand entwined with the king’s own, Wrathion lifted the other and cupped the back of Anduin’s head, pulling gently until his cheek rested on the dragon’s shoulder. He smelled strongly of smoke and sandalwood, a not altogether unpleasant aroma, and Anduin let himself relax, breathing in once, twice, three times through his nose. 

“I think she’s avoiding me,” he mumbled, running a finger down the smooth fabric. 

“So why don’t you go to her?” Wrathion’s voice rumbled beneath his cheek.

“I don’t think she wants to see me.” 

“My dear, who wouldn’t want to see you?” It was a light tease, and one Anduin didn’t take offense to. “I spent every day wishing to see you again.”

“You could have, if you hadn’t knocked me unconscious,” Anduin teased back.

Wrathion chuckled. “And here I thought my various war crimes were what kept us apart.” His hand stroked the tender skin of the king’s neck, and if Anduin had been physically capable he would have purred.

“I honestly think my father was more upset that you hit me.” He nuzzled against the dragon’s collar and placed a small kiss to the skin. Even now, the small action caused his heart to race.

He felt a slender finger curl beneath his chin and allowed Wrathion to tilt his head up to meet his eyes. “I suppose,” he murmured, “it’s a good thing you hit me back then.” And then he pressed a soft, gentle kiss to Anduin’s lips, and Anduin couldn’t breathe.

It wasn’t new, kissing. They’d kissed in Pandaria, sneaking around Tong and their guards and the tavern’s many guests; awkward kisses of first love, short and full of mistakes, clacking teeth and too much tongue. They’d learned, after a time, how to kiss each other. How to avoid bumping noses, how to breathe. Learned the right amount of pressure to use, how to nip at lips without breaking the skin and how to peck so, so lightly at the corners of mouths. They’d gotten very good kissing, before it all came crashing down. 

That night, the night of Wrathion’s return from the Sleeping City and the death of N’Zoth, Anduin had invited Wrathion to his chambers and they’d kissed again for the first time in years. Anduin had taken the dragon’s face gently in his hands, as Wrathion was doing now, and kissed him so tenderly he thought his heart would break. 

_Light,_ he had missed Wrathion. 

The contact pulled a low whine from deep within, reverberating through Anduin’s mouth and melting into the dragon’s, as an arm wrapped around Wrathion’s lithe waist and Anduin pulled him closer. Wrathion sighed against the king’s lips.

“I missed you, Anduin.” He rested his forehead against the king’s and looked at him from beneath hooded lids. “I missed you so much.” He murmured something in Draconic as his eyes closed, nuzzling against the king’s cheek. His fingers tangled in Anduin’s short, silky hair but he didn’t pull. Not yet. Wrathion groaned and arched under the king’s touch, seeking more heat, more closeness, more more _more_ of anything Anduin was willing to give him _._ He hauled him into his lap and the king felt the pangs of arousal deep in his gut. _Light,_ Anduin thought. How could he ever have thought he could live without Wrathion?

He kissed the dragon hungrily, on his lips and his cheeks and in a wet, sucking line down his neck, kissed him like he would die without him, and Wrathion squirmed beneath him. His cheeks flushed as he felt the dragon respond, as his breathing grew more labored and his touch more insistent. Wrathion’s length pressed into him and Anduin lost himself in the sensation; he wondered, in the back of his mind, if Wrathion still looked the same. Still felt the same. Still _tasted_ the same, and the memory of the dragon’s cock in his mouth unleashed a low, impatient moan in the back of his throat. He felt more than saw Wrathion’s lips quirk, and hissed as the dragon dared dip his slender fingers beneath the hem of his shirt. The beautiful burn of skin on skin.

“More,” he gasped, lips grazing the thin scar on his neck. “Wrathion…”

Wrathion hummed, tracing his nails down the soft skin of Anduin’s belly. “Patience, darling,” he crooned. 

Anduin had never been patient, not in this. Had never been able to resist the fire the dragon stoked within him. Wrathion’s touch set him alight, erased his pain and replaced it with sweet, sweet pleasure the likes of which he had never known before or since. He wanted all of it, wanted the electricity crackling along his nerves and the sparks blooming on his skin. Wanted to feel Wrathion’s hot mouth and clever tongue on him, and to again fall apart beneath his skilled fingers. He wanted _more_ than they’d had in Pandaria, wanted to feel the slick slide of the dragon’s cock within him, wanted to be fucked so thoroughly he forgot his own name. 

Wrathion had always been so good at that. 

“Mmm.” The dragon nosed at his neck, and Anduin tilted his head to give him better access. “I never thought… though I’d hoped…”

“Yeah.” Hot arousal shot through him and he ground his ass against Wrathion’s hard length.

“After all the effort to keep us apart…” He fumbled one-handed for the laces of Anduin’s trousers. “Can’t believe… here we are…”

“Never thought I’d see you again,” Anduin panted, tugging at his tunic. 

“You’ll be seeing a lot more of me soon,” Wrathion promised, nipping at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and grinning at the resulting keen. In the silence of the room, it echoed in a way that made Anduin’s heart clench.

 _Fuck_ easing back into what they were. Fuck taking it slow. Wrathion wanted him so desperately, had always wanted him, and Anduin was not about to deny him any longer. 

A soft chuckle escaped the dragon’s mouth as his tunic found a new home on the floor. “What’s so funny?” Anduin panted, suddenly self conscious. _Your scars make you who you are,_ Wrathion had told him once. _You’re so beautiful._ Did he still think that?

But Wrathion wasn’t looking at the faded marks, and instead left a chaste kiss in the corner of his mouth. “I seem to remember so many people being quite concerned about the prince of Stormwind’s dragon lover.” His hand skittered down Anduin’s newly bared side, grin returning as the king curved toward him in a way that would have been painful were it not so _good._ “It just strikes me as funny that no one cared what your father did in his own time.”

Anduin’s mind blanked. His father? What?

“What?” He forced his eyes to focus. “Your bedroom talk has gotten very bad.”

And Wrathion chuckled again. “Perhaps,” he acquiesced, toying with the waistline of his trousers. “But let’s not pretend this isn't a distraction from your problems with dearest Valeera. It seems a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?, for your father to involve himself with a blood elf.”

For a moment Anduin was sure he was hallucinating. Probably some unprocessed grief manifesting in the worst possible moment, hard and shirtless and desperately aroused in a dragon’s lap. But as the seconds dragged on, and the twinkle in Wrathion’s eyes did not abate, he thought perhaps it was not a hallucination at all. 

“My father…” He groped for words, wishing he was groping at something else. “He and Val…” He shook his head. “They weren’t together.”

“Whoever told you that?” the dragon questioned. 

The memory of Taelia, just the other day, flickered across Anduin’s mind. _Were she and your father…?_

But what did Taelia Fordragon know? She’d never met his father or even, for that matter, _properly_ met Valeera.

“My dear.” Wrathion wrapped both arms around his middle and pulled him closer, nestling his chin in Anduin’s collarbone and puffing hot breaths as he spoke. “Even I could see it, naïve as I was.”

 _Val and I are not an item,_ his father had groused, waving the question away.

 _Don’t be silly,_ Valeera had told him, without meeting his eyes. 

Val was his father’s closest and truest friend, and his death had broken her. 

“They weren’t…”

But it would make… _so much_ sense… if they were.

Anduin felt his mind race.

Val cheated at cards, and his father, who abhorred cheating, never said a word. Had in fact, more than once, thrown a game so she could win. 

They took midday meals together, and several times Anduin had walked in on them sitting a great deal more close than was proper, heads bent together and hands almost touching.

The glint in his father’s eye when Anduin returned home from the Exodar and presented Val with a pair of white starstone earrings, as if he were… _angry_ about it, and the mysterious jeweled hair clip that Val sported not even two days later, his father puffing proudly as if having accomplished something.

More than once, the ties in his father’s dark hair, fine crimson silk like Valeera’s own, and when asked about it, his father would grumble _You can’t expect me to leave it wild, can you?,_ which wasn't really an answer.

The hot molten _glare_ that Genn reserved for Valeera alone, and Shaw’s distaste for her, lessening in intensity and seemingly abated after his father’s death.

The worry, never voiced but etched prominently into every feature, his father held when Valeera left the city, and the permanent furrow of his brows that smoothed only once she’d returned.

And, once or twice, the glimpses ﹣ very quick, and always second guessed ﹣ of his father’s hand against the small of Val’s back.

Anduin felt as though the world had suddenly flipped upside down. How had he never…? 

He could dismiss Taelia’s question, but Wrathion… Wrathion had _been there._ He’d seen for himself.

“Anduin?” The dragon cupped his cheek.

 _No one_ had spent more time with his father than Valeera Sanguinar. 

“Have I broken you?” Wrathion teased, with an undercurrent of concern.

The memory of Valeera, just after the Battle of Dazar’alor, crying in his study came to him then. _If you_ **_ever_ ** _find someone to love, act on it. Don’t fuck it up like I did._ Had she been speaking of...?

“Holy shit.”

“Pardon?” And out of the corner of his eye he saw the bemusement scrawled across the dragon’s face. 

“Holy _shit,”_ Anduin swore again. 

Whatever mood had been growing between them guttered out in the wake of Anduin’s enormous _stupidity._ Every moment of the past twelve years began playing on a loop in his brain.

His father confessing Val read to him when he was sick… and every single time Val swore to him she’d speak to his father on his behalf, returning triumphant every time… the way only Val could bring his father out of the worst of his rages… and how she’d appeared as if out of thin air in Pandaria the very afternoon Anduin confessed his feelings for Wrathion… the innumerable stories Val had of his father in silly or embarrassing situations… _He wouldn’t let anyone near him,_ she’d said, _and I had to set his shoulder myself…_

The blind _trust_ his father had in her, and in no one else. 

“Are you alright?” Wrathion sounded genuinely concerned now.

“Yeah.” The king thought his voice sounded very far away. “I’m… really _fucking_ stupid, by the _Light.”_

Wrathion’s meticulous eyebrows knitted together. “I thought it was obvious,” he said uncertainly.

“It was!” Anduin exclaimed, before burying his burning face in his hands. “It was _so_ obvious!”

A hand came up to rest comfortingly on his back. “Darling, are you actually upset?”

“No!” Anduin’s head shot up, mouth open in an O of mortification. “No, not ﹣ I’m just _dumb,_ Wrathion!”

“Yes,” the dragon agreed, a little more convinced that Anduin’s mental state hadn’t crashed. “But you’re very handsome. I would say it balances out.”

“Wrathion!”

Wrathion laughed and pulled him close enough for a kiss, gently laid against the temple. “I suppose I owe you another apology for ruining the mood,” he hummed.

“Yes, you do!” Anduin didn’t think anything could get his dick back up now. 

“Maybe someday I’ll give it to you.” The dragon’s smile turned salacious.

Anduin shoved him. “Oh my ﹣ let me up! Get off me, you ridiculous reptile.” 

* * *

Seven days ago, Valeera Sanguinar’s biggest concern was Anduin’s rapidly progressing relationship with a certain black dragon. As if the scar she’d given him hadn’t been enough to dissuade him from approaching Anduin again! It made her blood boil, and Anduin refused to see sense.

Six days ago, SI:7’s longtime recruiter Waltion Freemore kicked the bucket, and with his death the good spymaster had inherited a plethora of sinister secrets. In another life, Valeera might have offered her condolences, in her own way.

Six days ago, Valeera had learned one of those secrets. As if possessed by the spirit of Varian himself she’d ransacked Shaw’s office and then stormed to his little flat in the heart of Old Town with one goal in mind… and didn’t kill him. Couldn’t bring herself to. _Stayed_ with the bastard all night in his misery, until his ridiculous captain returned to claim him. 

Valeera didn’t know how to feel about this. 

The eradication of the Defias had been Varian’s vendetta for over ten years. They had taken everything from him ﹣ his wife, his relationship with his son, his sanity, and nearly his throne ﹣ and every bloodied red bandana soothed the ache in his soul just a little more. Valeera had been happy to act as his angel of vengeance, happy to do whatever brought the king the slightest semblance of peace. She’d thought, watching him shout with glee and desecrate the severed head of Edwin VanCleef, that it was finally over. 

Never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined that Mathias Shaw, head of SI:7 and spymaster of the Alliance, was _fucking_ VanCleef. 

_He told you about Edwin, yeah?_ Fairwind had asked. Casually, as if discussing the weather. _Mathias’s childhood sweetheart, died a few years back._

Childhood sweetheart. Shaw had been childhood _fucking_ sweethearts with gutter trash like Edwin VanCleef. 

Her body had moved on instinct, and Valeera hadn’t questioned it. _Val,_ Varian had growled ﹣ how many times, she couldn’t remember ﹣ _There’s been Defias talk again._ He’d never needed to elaborate. He’d never needed to ask. Like a shadow she’d melted from view, returning after hours and days and finding him right where she’d left him, stewing in his own fury. The number whispered in his ear always seemed to give him some relief. 

Valeera saw red when she heard that cursed name… and then she’d left Shaw alive. 

Varian would be so disappointed in her, if he were still alive. So angry. She could see his furious red face in her mind’s eye, the dangerous flash of teeth in his too wide, screaming mouth. She imagined he was screaming quite a lot, wherever he’d ended up. 

She drew her knees to her chest and buried her face in her arms. 

Varian would have killed Shaw without question. The moment the words left Fairwind’s lips he would have declared Shaw a traitor. Would have marched to Shaw’s flat and ripped the man in half with his own two hands, and had his body hung from the castle walls as a warning. 

Varian had not been a vicious man, but the Defias turned him into one. 

By the motherfucking Sunwell, when had she gotten so soft? Four years ago she would have loomed over Shaw in his drunken anguish and not thought twice about slitting his throat.

 _Get on with it then,_ Shaw had sobbed. _You’ve wanted to for years, haven’t you?_

She had, and she should have. She _should_ have. 

There was blood in her mouth. She didn’t remember when she’d started gnawing at her lip.

Why did it matter that Shaw was drunk off his ass? He was a traitor to the crown ﹣ traitors didn’t deserve honest deaths. 

_Do you even realize how many times Varian defended you?!_ she’d spat at him. _He swore up and down as to your loyalty and_ **_this_ ** _is how you shit on his grave?!_

How many times had she _insisted_ Shaw was dirty? How many arguments had she and Varian suffered over the good spymaster? 

_There’s no possible way he didn’t know about that bitch Katrana Prestor,_ she’d told him. _There’s not a chance in hell he wasn’t involved in the riots._

 _Val…_ Varian’s tone would be tense, his one warning that he was losing his patience. _We’ve been through this. Shaw is loyal to a fault. You can’t ask for better._

Apparently they could have.

Valeera sucked at her lip, swallowing around the copper taste. Snorted inelegantly. Shaw had been _so_ worried, so fucking concerned ﹣ for years! ﹣ that she had designs on the throne of Stormwind, when he’d been the one fucking the leader of the insurgence that killed the Lightdamn queen!

What a fucking hypocrite. 

She slumped against the wall and sulked. From her window she could see the quiet of Olivia’s Pond and the bustling Little Pandaria. The pandaren town hadn’t existed when Varian bequeathed her this room. 

_The best view in the castle,_ he’d proclaimed, drawing aside the curtain. _It’s yours, if you want it._

She’d rolled her eyes at his theatrics. _Of course I want it,_ she’d teased. _Who wouldn’t want to live in a castle?_

She hadn’t, back then. Not really. She’d had enough of palaces and high society life as a little girl, but the thought of leaving Varian ﹣ vulnerable, only recently reinstalled on a shaky throne ﹣ was unbearable even then. 

_Stay with me,_ he’d asked her, again and again.

_I’ll never leave._

And she hadn’t. 

Snarling, Valeera vaulted away from the wall, away from the best view in the castle and the weeping willow under whose shadowy branches Shaw had once implored she drown the Black Prince. 

She’d thought, with Varian’s death, and Felsoul Hold, that they’d reached some sort of agreement, she and Shaw. That under Anduin’s rule they would put aside their old feud and that for the good of the king they both loved they would keep no secrets. It seemed Shaw had made a fool of her after all, just as he’d sworn to do years ago.

She couldn’t believe she’d trusted him. 

  
  
  


It had been nine days since she’d seen Anduin. Valeera wasn’t exactly avoiding him. She hadn’t seen anyone in nine days, and had spoken so hatefully to her chambermaid that she’d driven the girl to tears. 

Anduin would probably ask her to apologize, if he found out. Anduin was like that. 

Scowling, Valeera rolled over, grumpily huddling beneath her sheets like some sort of angry caterpillar. Shaw wasn’t her only problem. She’d lied to Anduin, for the very first time in his life.

 _Don’t do this,_ he’d begged her. _Please, my dearest friend. It’s not worth it._

And when her intent became obvious, Anduin ﹣ the sweet friendly boy who'd once asked her with wide eyes how to throw daggers ﹣ drew himself up to his full height and said in his most authoritative voice, _As your king, I command you to look the other way. You are to leave Mathias Shaw be. That is a direct order. Do you understand?_

Valeera knew ﹣ she _knew_ ﹣ that Anduin was in the right. Though she was not a citizen of Stormwind nor the Alliance, he was her king and he was free to command her as he saw fit. She’d often told him to do just that to his unruly subjects, which in that moment she was. 

She’d just never thought he would do it to her. 

There was no need. Anduin didn’t often ask of her things to which she was opposed, and though she might complain and he might roll his eyes they both knew in the end she would relent. That had always been their dynamic. Always. 

Varian wouldn’t have commanded her to spare the spymaster. Varian had never commanded her to do anything at all. 

It was a bizarre feeling, and it didn’t sit well with her. She didn’t know how people like Mathias fucking Shaw put up with it. 

_As you wish, Your Majesty,_ she’d replied with a voice like ice, and when she left the room she knew those five words would be enough. That Anduin would believe her and leave Shaw unguarded, and she could murder him. 

Yes, Valeera had lied to him, and that didn’t sit well with her either but the boy didn’t _understand._ He didn’t know what something like this would mean to his father, how important it was for her to carry out Varian’s wishes. She knew Varian Wrynn better than anyone else ﹣ this was what he would want. 

Anduin wouldn’t understand that. He was an idealist, determined to see the good in people and forgive easily on good faith. Valeera wasn’t the forgiving sort. Hers was a will crafted of bloodstained marble, and marble was not so readily destroyed. 

Shaw knew that. Of course he did. And he’d used it against her.

 _Could you have done the same, if he’d stayed with the dragon? If Varian had labeled them enemies of the crown?_ His tone had been calm, the voice of a man resigned to his fate and not one pleading for his own life and yet… _Could you have written the warrant and carried out the sentence?_

The idea stuttered hard and cold in her chest. _How dare y_ ﹣

_What if the nobles declared **Varian** a traitor? Could you have killed him? _

Even now, Valeera had no answer for him. The thought simply would not take hold in her brain, the scenario would not form. In no timeline could she ever have laid a finger on Varian and Anduin Wrynn.

But Shaw wasn’t done with her. He’d delivered the final blow and cleaved Valeera’s heart in two.

_Get on with it if you must, but… you execute me… forget whatever trust Anduin has for you._

Valeera loved that boy. She’d tried ﹣ oh she’d _tried,_ so fucking hard ﹣ not to. To keep him at a distance. To ignore her lover’s son and stay out of his life. She hadn’t wanted to be his mother, but somewhere along the way… she’d become just that. She loved him, and one dead spymaster would tear him from her. 

She’d already lost Varian. 

She didn’t… she couldn’t afford to lose Anduin too. 

“Fuck,” Valeera muttered to herself. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck!”_ Another angry roll in the safety of her blanket cocoon. 

She might have already. By lying to him and going after Shaw anyway, and avoiding him in the aftermath. Despite Shaw’s heart still beating in his traitorous chest, she had violated Anduin’s trust and lied to his face. The boy was forgiving to a fault but… could he really forgive that?

Valeera remembered her fury at the Black Prince after Hellscream’s disastrous trial, her disbelief that he’d been able to lie to the beacon of goodness that was Anduin Wrynn, and now here she’d gone and done the same thing. 

_You’re the only one who’s ever honest with me,_ a teenaged Anduin confessed, sagging against her shoulder. _You’re the only one, Val._

Her ears burned with shame. No matter how she rationalized it, she could not rationalize away the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. 

He would have understood, she tried to tell herself. If she’d explained it after it was over, he would have understood. 

Except that Anduin was not his father. What convinced Varian would not work on Anduin, and after ten years Valeera had difficulty pushing her point through the stubborn head of Varian’s gentle son. Perhaps she was more like Varian than she’d ever realized. Perhaps that was why they had worked so well. 

The grief struck her immediately like a slap across the face. They hadn’t worked together, a little voice whispered, because they’d never _been_ together. Varian had told Valeera he loved her only in a letter after his death, and Valeera had only realized the depth of her own feelings sitting there in the castle kitchen staring at it. They had wasted _years_ just… fucking and never talking about anything and dancing around the Lightdamn subject and it was too late, too late, _too late_ when the truth finally came out. 

_For nearly nine years you have stood by me… Never once have I doubted your intentions,_ Varian had written in his broad hand, the words firm and true. _Do you remember what I asked you, that day on the ship? I wouldn’t have asked that of just anyone… And I couldn’t bring myself to say anything else… But… I will tell you plainly, when we see each other again. Stay with me._

What would have happened, if Varian had survived the Broken Shore? _I will tell you plainly, when we see each other again._ Valeera had pictured it countless times: Varian would stomp down the gangplank victorious, and after pulling his son into a tight, relieved hug he would reach for her. Would embrace her as he had a thousand times and knock their foreheads gently together. _Val,_ he would breathe, breath a warm puff on her face. He would kiss the words into her lips, right there on the pier, low and only for her. _I love you. Stay with me._

And she would have kissed him back and whispered, _Forever._

Valeera turned her face into the pillow and wept. 

* * *

Anduin had often been told he was too lax in his manner. He was partial to being addressed by his given name and knew those of all the castle servants. He did not like titles ﹣ his own or anyone else’s. Genn groused quite often about being called by name and tried, as his father had, to impose upon the boy the idea of rigid decorum. 

His father had probably never learned the name of the steward he’d had his entire adult life, but Varian was nowhere near as uptight ﹣ and, if Anduin were honest, _rude_ ﹣ as Genn. 

Elves, he’d learned, were a little like Genn. Or at least Valeera was. Elven society seemed almost outrageously stiff, and Anduin was positive that Val would not take kindly to a comparison with the old worgen. But both Genn and Val insisted on silly things like addressing others by their surnames ﹣ if they warranted address at all ﹣ and defined, strict rules on meals and manners. And both of them believed that, should their presence be required or should they wish for someone else’s, a messenger must deliver a handwritten note to the recipient and ferry a response back. 

Anduin thought the idea a little absurd.

Valeera rarely bothered sending notes to Anduin, though she’d taught him early on the hows and whys, but she did prefer he request her presence with one, and because it was important to her Anduin almost always did. He understood that Val let him take certain liberties with her that she did not extend to other people, and privately thought that Stormwind ﹣ so far away and different from her homeland ﹣ must create much homesickness. Perhaps these things, messages and finger foods and keeping hierarchy, made her feel a little more respected in a city that was so often hostile towards her.

Still, he struggled with the idea of penning a message today. A simple _I would like to speak to you_ felt too lackluster, while anything more detailed felt too terribly private to entrust in a written correspondence. His steward Martin would gladly deliver it, as he had countless times before, but Anduin did not wish to inflict Val’s temper on him should she have one at the time. No one was as cruel as Genn, but he knew Val had been raised in finery and splendor in Silvermoon, and she could be just as abrasive as any Stormwindian noble. 

In the end, he decided to make the trip upstairs without a message and knock on Val’s door unannounced. Her quarters were not terribly far from his own, after all, and he would take his cane. 

Val had strong opinions that he should use his cane when he needed to, which often clashed with Genn’s belief that canes were a weakness. She thought Anduin stubborn ﹣ _Just like your father_ ﹣ when he insisted on limping unassisted despite the pain in his leg, and perhaps seeing him use it would soften the slight caused by the missing letter. 

It was an odd feeling, the absence of Val in his daily life. He’d never quite gotten used to it even despite her frequent trips outside the city on secret missions to which he’d never been privy growing up. And now, with her just one floor above and not speaking to him, it was odder still. He missed her fiercely. He wanted her back. And he wanted, more than anything else, to understand what had driven her to Shaw’s flat that night. 

Unlike his own apartments, Valeera’s did not have a guards’ room marking the entrance, though she was afforded an armed officer from the castle’s own security detail. Anduin had never questioned this in the past, had simply assumed that all residents of Stormwind Keep required a convoy of some sort. The Greymanes certainly had one, after all, a squadron of stiff-backed, never smiling Gilneans who towered over the servants and most other inhabitants; and guests were often overseen by a patrol. But the barons and ladies who also occupied the castle, in its other wings, never seemed to have sentries of their own and wasn’t Valeera technically ﹣ hadn’t she been born a lady?

New eyes took in the scene as Anduin rounded the corner. As he observed the deep bow given by Valeera’s guard ﹣ a quiet, no-nonsense man named Ramsay who’d held the position for many years ﹣ he realized that the guard had probably been given to her by his father, who likely had also paid the man from his own pocket. Quite a few of Valeera's things, from her missions expenses and salary to her household, were paid not by the Crown of Stormwind but by the House of Wrynn...

Mind quietly blown for the fourth or fifth time in the past forty-eight hours, Anduin pushed all this aside as Ramsay rapped sharply on the gilded door and was greeted with a brusque “What” from inside.

“His Majesty here to see you, ma’am.” The guard seemed unfazed by Valeera’s attitude; after twelve years, he’d probably weathered all her moods. 

Anduin supposed he had the right to enter unannounced. Surely his father never waited for permission, and Ramsay had not been installed to stop the king, after all. But something stayed his feet. He felt it was immensely important to be _invited_ into Valeera’s apartments, right now, for him to respect her wishes and privacy as she always did his. If she truly did not want to see him, he would not force his presence upon her. 

And, if he were entirely honest with himself, he was quite anxious. He couldn’t remember ever once having stepped into Valeera’s home, the holy of holies, and the one place to which she retreated to get away from the world. 

The seconds ticked on. Anduin shifted his weight to his other foot, cane head digging into his palm. Ramsay didn’t have the authority to stop him, and Valeera did not truly have the authority to send him away. The man’s carefully blank facade began to twitch nervously. 

“That’s fine,” came the answer, after what seemed an eternity but was likely only a minute or two, and Anduin did not miss the guard's quiet, relieved exhale as Ramsay swung the door wide and led him inside. 

“Your Majesty.” He bowed respectfully again. “Ma’am.” And with a quiet scrape of wood on stone, Ramsay left them, closing them off from the world. 

Valeera’s apartments were… very much like her, Anduin decided. Comfortable, and decorated in what he assumed was Thalassian style. There was a low table surrounded by wide, plush cushions on the floor, atop a finely woven rug in muted autumn colors. An ornament fashioned of dozens of crystals hung from the window across the room, its gauzy curtain pulled back to allow inside mosaiced afternoon light. They were not the opaque pink and purple crystals with which Anduin was familiar, the sort the draenei favored; these were a translucent sort of pale blue, and quite pretty. A bookcase sat against one wall and while it was packed full, Anduin doubted Valeera had read many of them. She had never loved books the way he had.

Valeera herself had been sitting on a chaise lounge, constructed in a more elegant fashion than Anduin was quite used to, and for a moment it seemed she would remain there. Valeera Sanguinar was the only person, he thought, who could get away with such impudence. The only person from whom such an action was not impudence at all. He saw her eyes flick down, very briefly, to the cane clutched in his left hand, and after a beat she patted the cushion beside her.

“Come sit down,” she said, in the gentle voice he remembered, and Anduin’s heart leapt. Perhaps she wasn’t angry at him after all. 

Elves removed their shoes when inside and, leaning heavily on his cane, Anduin did just that. He’d worn comfortable loafers without laces just in case, and placed them carefully on the simple stand by the door beside Valeera’s own thick-soled boots, before making his way in socked feet over to her. He fought the urge to hug her ﹣ it was so _good_ to see her ﹣ and sat. 

A hug would not fix what had fractured between them.

“I’ve missed you at meals,” he said awkwardly. He’d come here with purpose but now, sitting on this surprisingly uncomfortable couch, he’d forgotten what he wished to say.

Valeera didn’t respond right away. Anduin had not been blessed with a critical eye, but he thought after twelve years that he knew Val quite well. Knew the hesitant quiver of her long pointed ears, and the too stiff set of her jaw. She folded her hands primly in her lap ﹣ a careful, controlled movement ﹣ and said, “I needed some time…”

She was nervous too.

Conversations with Val were always direct and to the point, with little small talk and few tangents, and were not something Anduin was really very good at. It was why he’d struggled in his relationship with his father, and why he had difficulty talking to Genn, who both spoke so bluntly. He wasn’t sure he could take the opening Val had given him; it felt rude, and rushed, and he was almost relieved when she took the decision from him.

“How bad is it today?” she asked quietly, and it took a moment for him to understand she was referring to his health. He only used his cane, now leaning inoffensively against the arm of the couch, when his pain was truly unbearable. 

_Never show weakness,_ Genn had instructed, _for your enemies will see and take advantage._ Anduin’s father had held the same view until his deadly accident, and never rebuked his son for his early reliance on painkillers and hot water bottles and his cane. 

_Take what you need,_ his father had urged, handing him a vial of jademoon elixir. _A lesser man would have died beneath the Bell, but you_ **_fought._ ** _You fought with everything you had, and you triumphed. This…_ And here he’d gestured to his son, from his aching head to his nearly numb toes. _This means you are a survivor, and there’s nothing more terrifying than that._

“It’s… manageable.” Admittedly he did hurt today, but for once very little of it was physical. He took the pillow Val offered him anyway and jammed it under his hip. His femur had long since healed but the ache it left in his pelvis never really went away.

“You didn’t have to drag yourself up here.”

“I didn’t think you would come if I sent for you,” he confessed. “And I didn’t… It didn’t feel right to.”

Silence bloomed in the wake of his words, and Anduin could think of no other time in his entire life where he’d felt as uncomfortable as he did now. But he and Valeera had had difficult discussions before and had always persevered. They would get through this. 

“Val.” He cleared his throat. “Um. Can we… talk?”

That wasn’t the right way to go, judging by the roll of Val’s tongue against her teeth before her somewhat forced, “About?” But she hadn’t shut him down, and Anduin took that as a sign to continue. 

“Um.” His father wouldn’t have this problem. Varian Wrynn had feared no one, had always been able to speak his mind. Even when their relationship was at its most tattered, his father had never been reduced to a stumbling, tongue-tied boy. Anduin took a deep breath and prayed for his strength. “Taelia’s postponed her return to Boralus. She was supposed to leave tomorrow afternoon, but she… she’s worried. So she’s staying.”

Valeera’s eyes remained fixed on a point across the room, and the nod she gave him was only the slightest bit stiff. “I’m sure the old worgen’s pleased to hear that,” she murmured noncommittally. “More time to nurture your _budding romance.”_

Anduin knew that was a dig at Genn and required no comment. Val had often criticized the other king’s insistence on Anduin finding a suitable bride, even though Anduin had ﹣ in his opinion ﹣ made it quite clear that his interests lay decidedly elsewhere. “We actually… haven’t seen much of each other,” he ventured cautiously. “She’s been spending nearly all her time with Captain Fairwind and… and Shaw.”

“Fairwind’s a bit of a character,” Val said at length. “You could learn something from him.”

This was how it always went, when the boy king attempted to navigate waters Val would rather avoid. She would cherrypick his words and shift their focus, and Anduin wasn’t stupid; he understood what she was trying to do, but more often than not, the topic wasn’t worth the effort and he would let it drop. If this were any other conversation, if the last nine days hadn’t happened, he would follow her lead. Ask _Oh yeah? Why’s that?_ and allow her to disclose whatever knowledge she had on the captain, listen to whatever criticisms and praise he’d warranted. But this was important. Anduin had to persist.

“He said. Uh, he said Shaw’s doing better. Might be able to return to work soon.” 

There it was. A flash of something ﹣ anger, disgust, despair ﹣ rippled across her face, pulling at the corners of her mouth and her elegant brows, ears flicking, before it was gone. Smoothed over as if it never was. She did not answer. He gave her a moment ﹣ he himself sometimes required one or two or four to collect his thoughts ﹣ but her mouth remained shut. 

Well. It was now or never.

“Val,” he murmured, “why… what happened, the other night?”

She shifted in her seat, spine ramrod straight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Why didn’t you listen to me?” His tone was as gentle as he knew how, but the undercurrent of hurt was still there, and Val heard it. 

“You pulled rank.” He heard the grind of her teeth, her wounded pride. He’d never given Val an order before and, perhaps, no one else had either. Not even his father. What did that say about someone like Valeera Sanguinar, that her loyalty was so absolute that the merest suggestion of action had always been enough for her to take it? Even people like Shaw and Genn had been on the receiving end of a kingly command, but Valeera…

Perhaps he’d made a mistake, making immediately for a king's order. That was unlike him. Anduin was known for his diplomatic skills, his gentle patience and abilities of persuasion, and he had used none of them that night. Perhaps if he’d taken a moment ﹣ because Val _had_ listened to him, when she stopped to hear him speak ﹣ he would have been able to get through to her. 

He’d treated her as a nameless subject, not as the dear friend and mother figure she was. He might as well have slapped her.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t think, and reacted too quickly.”

The tension eased somewhat, and Val’s jaw unclenched. “It’s alright,” she exhaled. “I… suppose I did the same.”

“But _why,_ Val? All that business with the Defias was years and years ago, and Shaw﹣”

“You wouldn’t understand.” There was a bite to her voice now, the tone he knew so well. He was pushing them into a closed subject and she would like him to stop.

He didn’t.

“So help me!” He reached for her and took her hands in both of his, staring imploringly into eyes which refused to meet his own. “Val, _help_ me understand.”

“The Defias killed your mother,” she muttered pointedly. “They spent _years_ undermining your family’s authority. They nearly overthrew the kingdom. Why would that not matter to me?”

Anduin knew all those things, but he didn’t think they were the reason. Valeera didn’t care about the monarchy or the nobles, had never even met his mother. Valeera had made it quite clear, time and time again, that her only affiliation was to the House of Wrynn. 

“Were you afraid that Shaw’s one of them?” he asked carefully. “That he’s… playing some sort of long game to assassinate me?”

A frustrated noise ripped from Valeera's throat. “This is bigger than you!” She wrenched her hands away and shot to her feet, all cold fury coiled tightly in every cell of her being. “This isn’t _about_ you, Anduin!”

“So tell me﹣”

“He betrayed your father!” Val was shouting now, and for the span of several heartbeats she was so like Varian Wrynn that Anduin could only stare. “While your father sat there _defending_ him and his fucking atrocious handling of the riots and that bitch Onyxia, Shaw was _fucking_ the Defias leader! He made a mockery of Varian and all he stood for!”

Though only a babe at the time of the riots, Anduin remembered their effect. Their poisonous influence tainted his entire childhood, and he knew more about VanCleef than he had any right to considering he'd never even seen the man before. One of the worst arguments he’d ever had with his father, one of the very few times he’d ever been allowed to attend a council meeting in his youth, had been about the Defias, and how Anduin agreed with them. Not their methods, as he’d tried to explain, but their principles. Why they were doing this. He’d thought his father would strike him, though ultimately he didn’t, instead smashing a goblet down on the table so hard it shattered and ordering his removal from the hall. 

“I don’t…” He fumbled for words. “Shaw signed his death warrant,” he tried again. “And VanCleef died. Why would he… Val, if he’d ‘betrayed’ Father, why would he do that?”

The air seemed almost electrically charged, and a tiny voice in the back of his mind wondered if the rumors were true, if all elves possessed an innate ability to call magic when under duress. He wondered what sort of explosion he would bear witness to. 

“I think… I think that proves his loyalty.”

“Your father wouldn’t see it that way,” Valeera said icily. “He would have ordered Shaw’s execution that night!”

“My father is dead,” Anduin said quietly, and mercifully his voice did not shake, “and I should think what _I_ want supersedes any wishes of his.”

Val’s nostrils flared, ears twitching irritably. “Afraid that’s not how this works, Anduin.”

She was shutting him down. “Why?” the king persisted. “Why is it so important what my father would want?”

A scoff. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Wrathion’s words came back to him then, the lit fuse to his revelatory bomb. _It seems a bit hypocritical, don’t you think?, for your father to involve himself with a blood elf. Even I could see it._

“It’s because you loved him,” Anduin said softly. “Didn’t you?”

This wasn’t how he’d planned to have this conversation. Wasn’t even sure if he truly believed Wrathion in any case. The dragon was well known for making up stories and pushing Anduin’s buttons, and perhaps he’d only said those things to divert his attention from the frankly alarming amount of recent concerning events. He honestly expected Valeera to deny it.

Except… even when she had in the past, she’d never… _outright_ said no…

He stared at her now, as her eyes grew round and wide, and her mouth snapped shut. Stared as she folded her arms over her chest, hugging her vulnerability tightly to herself. He’d never seen her like this, and a part of him was a little unnerved. 

“Didn’t you?”

Three years ago he’d stood with her to welcome the army home from its humiliating defeat at the hands of the Legion on the Broken Shore. Watching with increasing anxiety as the wounded were spirited off the single remaining ship, as the miniscule numbers of recovered dead beneath their white sheets were carted off. His heart clenched at the sight of Genn, filthy with sweat and blood and grime, limping down the gangplank, snarling at the priests who jumped forward to tend to his grievous wounds. The worgen had stood before him, the last soul to leave the ship and, grave of face, shook his head. _I’m sorry, my boy._

Valeera’s entire body had gone rigid. Her face crumpled before she could stop it, and Genn’s eyes flicked to her, unreadable. Her hand trembled when she’d placed it on Anduin’s shoulder, squeezing harder than she’d probably meant to. 

She rarely left his side in the days following, but sometimes he caught her with wet, red-rimmed eyes framed by terrible dark circles, and whenever he’d ask after her she’d dismiss the question with some excuse and a hoarse, _What about you?_

“Yes.” 

The word was so quiet Anduin almost didn’t hear it, and once it registered he was almost shocked it had been uttered at all. Valeera had always been honest with him but such a… straightforward answer was unlike her.

“And he loved you.” This time he didn’t ask. _I thought it was obvious,_ Wrathion had said.

Valeera’s eyes fell closed, and she chewed at her lip. “Yes,” she whispered. “He did. Ver… very much.”

Why had they hidden it? Because of what Wrathion had said? _It’s rather hypocritical, don’t you think?_ Because Val was a blood elf, and people like Genn and the House of Nobles would have objected? Or was it because of Anduin? 

Did his father think he would've been upset? Hadn’t Anduin been clear in his affection for the woman, in his wishes for her as his mother? Had he somehow given the impression that he would be angry with his father for no longer living within the black gloom of depression over his wife’s death?

“Val…”

She shook her head, swiping a shaky hand over her eyes. “He would be disappointed in me for letting Shaw live,” she mumbled dejectedly. 

That was probably true. Anduin preferred to think the best of people, and he thought, if his father’s rage could be contained long enough to make him see sense, he might have done as Valeera had, and walked away. But that was mostly wishful thinking, and Anduin unfortunately knew that too. 

“Maybe so,” he concurred, “but I’m not.” He pushed himself from the couch and reached for her again, laid a gentle hand on her arm, and the look she gave him, the conflicted relief, loosened the knot in his chest. 

“I know it’s not the same, but I’m happy you didn’t do it. Vengeance doesn’t suit you, Val.”

Valeera blinked several times in quick succession and Anduin pretended, for her sake, that he didn’t notice the wetness clinging to her lashes. Val was the sort who didn’t like to be fussed over and he wouldn’t, but the urge to hug her now was stronger than ever and he could resist it no longer. He folded her into his arms and she did not resist. She clung to him, so tightly it almost hurt, and Anduin said nothing about that either. 

They stood like that for a long time, neither speaking nor moving, and it was surreal, Anduin thought, for the woman from whom he’d always sought comfort and solace to need it now from him. Was this what adulthood was? Not marriage and kingship and war but… learning that one’s parents were not infallible? 

Val dipped her head to his shoulder. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”

He hugged her harder, muscles screaming in protest. “It’s alright,” he soothed. “I understand now why you did.” He pulled away a little to look at her. “I’m not angry.”

She nodded a bit. “Neither am I. Not at you.”

“Are you alright?”

It was perhaps a little much, to expect someone like Val to remain so open and candid with him, and soon enough she began to close off. “If it’s okay, I’d like to leave the city for a few days,” she said quietly. Her way of answering no.

“Of course. You don’t need my permission,” he reminded her gently. Perhaps a subject of Stormwind would, but Val had never been his subject. “Where do you think you’ll go?”

She hummed. “Val’sharah, maybe.” She had a friend there, Anduin knew, a good friend. The night elf with the antlers who’d fought with her and his father in the Crimson Ring. Perhaps she was going to see him.

“Tell me before you leave?”

“Of course,” she echoed, straightening his collar unnecessarily. “How else will you see me off?”

Val wasn’t okay ﹣ this thing with Shaw and VanCleef had struck a nerve very close to her heart, and Anduin didn’t think that was necessarily something he could help with. He didn’t have the relationships with all involved that she did, or the insight into his father’s mind. But she seemed relieved in his support, in his non dismissal of her emotions, and he took comfort in the fact that their relationship was undamaged by this trauma, and that she would talk to him if he were brave enough to ask. 

* * *

“You were right.”

Wrathion laughed. “I’m always right,” he said cockily, looking up from the game. “But to what are you referring today?”

Anduin rolled his eyes. “You’re also ridiculous,” he groused.

“You doubt me far too often, my dear. You need reminding now and then.”

“Oh just take your turn,” Anduin snapped, but he was smiling and there was no bite in it. He watched as Wrathion’s red stone leapfrogged two of his blue, removing them from play with practiced ease. “You were right about my father and Val.”

“Ah, that,” the dragon said smugly with a snap of fingers. “I see you’ve finally decided to trust my keen observations.”

Anduin studied the board. “No,” he said shortly, “I still doubt a great deal of what comes out of your mouth.” He ignored Wrathion’s squawk of protest and added, “I asked her myself, and﹣”

“I can’t believe you still don’t trust me!” Wrathion lamented, placing a hand on his chest dramatically. “I’m hurt, Anduin.”

“I believe the pardon I wrote states that I do trust you,” the king remarked dryly.

Wrathion batted the comment away. “That’s a low blow,” he pouted. 

“I only speak the truth.”

“As do I!”

The stones clicked as Anduin slid one blue beside a cluster of red. “Only when it suits you.”

“Is that what you believe?”

“I do.”

The dragon slid around the board to sit beside the king, shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. His smirk was Anduin’s only warning before Wrathion kissed him, running his tongue over the seam of his lips and licking into Anduin’s mouth. A low moan shuddered between them, and Anduin couldn’t say for certain from whom it’d come.

“What do you say to that, my dear?” the dragon murmured.

“I say you want something,” Anduin panted. 

Wrathion grinned. “Nothing that you don’t want as well.”

“No,” he concurred. “You’re right about that too.”

Wrathion preened, leaving Anduin no choice but to kiss him again lest he be subjected to another vainglorious speech and sex fell off the table entirely. 


End file.
